


A Truce, Dinner and Revelations

by Cirilla Godefroy (Cumbersnatched)



Series: The Vampire of Kaer Morhen [5]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Best Friends, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, Enemies to Friends, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Friends With Benefits, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Humor, Innuendo, M/M, Sparring, Vampires, Witcher - Freeform, trust building
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-25
Updated: 2019-10-25
Packaged: 2021-01-02 22:11:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21168689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cumbersnatched/pseuds/Cirilla%20Godefroy
Summary: The longest Day:We start with a lecture with a surprising ending involving a truce between two foes. Then we make our way to our favorite vampires garden, who is visited by an old friend. The foes spar, and the truce is broken--or is it?Then dinner, with the adult witcher's and all that goes with it!What a long day!





	A Truce, Dinner and Revelations

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter is exceptionally long. I have about 6-8 years to cover in this fic, and lots of time jumps to be had! So when things happen in a single day (or two) I'd rather just stick them in one chapter! So enjoy!
> 
> Warning:  
Pg13 for language and innuendo

“The Bullvore is a post-conjunction necrophage which can rarely be found among its lesser kin, nekkers, ghouls and rotfiends. They’re large, tough as nails, but slow. Like the shaelmaar, one should wait for it to charge before dodging nimbly out of the way. Attack while it’s stunned by striking fast and true, with all your strength, for once it orientates itself, it’ll spew caustic, poisonous vile at you. Be quick or you’ll burn—continue on this path with all haste less it heal from any wound you might afflict it.

As with all necrophages, be sure to coat your blade in necrophage oil before rushing into battle…”

Vesemir spoke, slowly pacing back and forth across the classroom. Several heads bowed over scraps of parchment, focused intently as their quills scratched away diligently. Most of them were doing their best to take notes, with the exception of a few. Geralt was one of those few. There was a meaningful pause while Vesemir waited for his student’s to take notes, which Geralt used to look around the study hall the Wolf School Master had stablished for them.

It wasn’t a large room. Just large enough to allow thirty or so younglings to fit into several long tables lined with benches. All severely huddled together as their legs brushed and they tried not to jostle each other’s arms while they wrote. Sunlight streamed through the narrow crenels lining the walls, illuminating the room and its myriad of bookshelves surrounding them. The room smelt dusty and stale, with all its tables piled high with scrolls, parchment and baskets of quills, and the light was just barely bright enough that the trainees could see what they were writing. Eskel sat next to him, their bodies so close his friends elbow nearly poked him in the side as he feverishly jotted down his notes.

As always, Eskel noted down far more than Geralt who preferred to abbreviate and summarize Vesemir’s lectures in his own version of shorthand. They were always together, he and Eskel. Whether it be in the mess hall, sparring, studying at the library or just hanging out in their room, they were inseparable—mostly. Now, and much to his dismay, his best friends’ habits were beginning to rub off on him. Probably due more to his wanting to keep rank and keep up with Eskel than due to the close friendship they’ve formed. Either way, Geralt’s habits were changing as they aged, learned and trained together, and mostly for the better. He welcomed it—he’d need all the help he could get if he were to be the Witcher he hoped to become.

Geralt’s gazed lingered on Eskel as messy brown hair fell in front of his face while he wrote. His friend’s dark eyes were intent and focused as he tried to retain Vesemir’s words and transfer them accurately to paper. After a moment, his gaze skipped over to where Clovis sat at a table diagonally from them. Clovis appeared more relaxed, jotting down a word or phrase every so often. Clovis, who nipped closely at his heels in the cohort’s ranks, having settled himself at fifth, directly behind Gweld yet in front of his other friend Gascaden. Geralt was just barely maintaining his standing as second in the cohort, just behind Eskel whose knowledge was leaps and bounds ahead of his own, while Geralt’s stamina and natural skill with a sword easily surpassed most everyone else. As there were only about thirty or so young trainees in their cohort, that was something, at least he thought so, but he wanted to be better. He had to learn, so he adapted. He wrote, he _studied…_

After covering Bullvore, Vesemir went over rotfiends, their weaknesses, strengths and how to neutralize them, followed by devourers. It was after devourers and the pause which followed that he decided to ask if anyone had questions. Clovis raised his hand.

“Are vampires related to necrophages?” Clovis genuinely seemed curious as he propositioned himself as a naïve, uninformed trainee, as if he had no idea how _insulting_ that question would be.

Eskel schooled himself while Geralt seethed. Without even a glance, Eskel _felt_ his anger and subtly sneaked a hand under the table to give his knee a warning squeeze. _‘Calm down. Watch yourself,’_ it said, but Geralt didn’t care.

“You can’t be _serious _Clovis. We know you’re not that dumb,” Geralt bit out at the other boy, knowing and not giving a damn that he was taking the bait. Clovis _knew _vampires were in no way related to necros! Nasty, instinctual monsters that were drawn to and fed on corpses…please! He knew Clovis made the comparison just to piss him off. It was no secret that he and the resident vampire were close friends and spent a lot of time together—he was the only one who did so! Vesemir was always on them about being open minded and neutral—seeing the _gray areas_ where other judgmental people could not. How could he just sit here and let some _brat kid_ insinuate things about Dettlaff?!

All eyes were on him then; Clovis’ full of mirth, and the searing gold cat eyes of Vesemir as well. The old witcher’s face was stern, neutral—as his should have been. Geralt locked onto those eyes, not daring them, nor offering a challenge, but regarding them coolly and with confidence—he wouldn’t back down from defending his friend, one of the few he had.

“Geralt. Stay after.” Vesemir ordered him with equal coolness. “As to answer your rather _off topic_ question, Clovis. No, however bruxa and alp are sometimes confused for necrophages. Higher and lower vampires bare absolutely no relation to necrophages and will be discussed at another time.” Vesemir tore his eyes from his unofficial rival and locked eyes with each of them individually as he next spoke.

“That said, I would expect every single one of you to give all sentient beings, human and non-human alike, the common courtesy of a non-biased neutral opinion—regardless of what they are or what you’ve learned about their race as a whole. Every being deserves a chance to be understood, especially if their lives or livelihood may be at stake due to a contract. Just because someone is a _vampire_ or a _doppler_ or some such, does not make them a _monster_ by default that deserves to be put down_._” The wolf school master’s voice grew fierce as he tried to drill it into them, the importance of this—something that Geralt had already easily grasped.

“Unless of course they’re currently trying to kill you,” Clovis quipped with a grin.

Vesemir’s sharp eyes locked onto Clovis again. “Stay,” he practically growled, immediately wiping the grin off of Clovis’s face.

“The rest of you are excused,” the old witcher said abruptly as he stood and walked towards the grand bookshelf that lined the back of the wall.

Eskel squeezed his knee assuredly as he stood and maneuvered his way off the bench that their group shared. “Shouldn’t have said anything,” Eskel hissed under his breath, to which Geralt shrugged. “I’d have said the same if he were saying things about you.”

His best friend blinked at that in surprise and softened his gaze. “Still…I’ll see you in the yard. Mind your tongue Geralt, don’t get into more trouble.”

Geralt nodded after him as he stood and maneuvered himself off the bench as well, not meeting his friends gaze. He wasn’t nervous to be alone with old Ves, far from it. He just wasn’t looking forward to being scolded in front of Clovis.

Geralt waited off to the side of their table as the cohort quietly filed out of the room. Many eyes glanced his way as they passed; some searching and other’s judging. He met each and every one of them. He didn’t regret what he’d said, and he hoped that by sticking up for his friend—the resident vampire—he’d bring more attention to him and maybe, possibly, help the other’s broach their fear of him.

“Geralt. Clovis.”

Geralt moved down the middle of the room and stopped several feet before Master Vesemir. He stood respectfully, hands clasped formally behind his back and feet spread shoulder-width apart, as was traditional when receiving instruction while on foot, either inside or outside in the yard. Clovis lined up with him and did the same—their expressions were neutral as they gazed ahead.

Vesemir looked down at him, his face stern, though there was a glimmer in the witcher’s eyes that Geralt couldn’t quite place. “Geralt, I commend your passion when it comes to defending your friends, or those you care about. Seeing it in one so young is encouraging, especially when one of your friends is non-human. I pray you do not lose this ability as you age and become hardened by the path.”

Geralt’s heart warmed at Vesemirs sincere words, though he didn’t let himself become too happy or excited over them—Vesemir always coached this way—buttering them up first before sliding in the knife.

The old wolfs gaze switched, latching onto the boy next to him, and it hardened considerably. “Clovis. Your pointedly _off topic_ question and lack of ability to school yourself away from Geralt’s response to it has revealed your true agenda, so hear me now. There are too many bigoted, hateful people in the world and the amount of anger and hatred directed at non-humans in general is insurmountable. To see one as young as yourself turning down such a dark path is disheartening. You must learn to open your mind to all possibilities, _unless_ as you so put it, they’re trying to kill you. When you become a witcher, this neutrality and open-mindedness will be of utmost importance. Do not narrow your vision, and see only what you wish to see, less you ruin those who do not deserve it. By doing so you shame us, and all that you would stand for.”

Geralt stared straight ahead, but out of his peripheral vision he could see Clovis lose his composure and hang his head.

“People hate on witcher’s all the time. I hear the wintering ones talking about it sometimes…” Clovis mumbled under his breath, though for an adult witcher it was probably crystal clear.

“Two rights don’t make a wrong pup. I will not lie, things will. _Be. So. Hard_. On the path. Some days you’ll probably wish yourself dead, but remember your purpose, and rise above the hatred. Do not let it embitter, you. _Prove them wrong._”

Geralt took solace in the ferocity of Vesemir’s voice—the strength it held and its brutal honesty. He hoped one day he could be as powerful as him, as strong in body and spirit. He would certainly try.

“Yes sir. I will prove it.” Clovis raised his head and squared his jaw, determined? Or was he stubbornly refusing to accept the words?

“Geralt.”

He blinked and refocused himself. It was his turn to have his outburst addressed, just as he thought it would be. He only hoped he’d get off as easy as Clovis.

“It’s become common knowledge who you prefer to associate with, and while I appreciate your attempts at being all-inclusive, alienating your cohort will not further that purpose. Eliminating fear takes time even with proper education, and fostering tolerance, then acceptance, even longer. I would like you to apologize to Clovis for insulting him and mind your tongue in the future.”

Oh gods…

Silence hung in the air as he ground his teeth—he was sure the master witcher could hear him doing so. It was garbage he was being made to apologize. All he did was call him out on his bull—but…Geralt took the bait laid for him. He knew there would be _some sort_ of discipline attached to it. But…apologizing? Really?

_“Geralt.”_ Vesemir loosed a warning growl.

He closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath, schooling himself against the feel of Vesemir’s intense gaze and the heat that began burning his cheeks. He could do this. It was _just_ Clovis—who he has had it out for since the Roach incident so long ago, and as a result has gotten much better at sparring with him. Ever since that dirt trick anyway…

He…could be the better person. Clovis stooped low to win, to get whatever it was he wanted, nearly every time, and he’d learned to best him at least most of the time regardless. So Geralt wouldn’t fall to that level. If the trainee beside him could take Vesemir’s words to heart, so could he, and offer a sincere apology to boot. Maybe they could mend this bridge? And if Clovis wanted to continue to burn it down, that was on him.

He hung his head in much the same way Clovis had as he let his features relax. Schooling yourself into an apology wouldn’t fix anything, it would seem forced—exactly the opposite of what this was supposed to be.

“Okay. Clovis.” He said softly as he lifted his head and offered Clovis a lopsided grin. “Truce? I’m sorry for implying you’re dumb. Dummies don’t get into the top five easily.” Geralt held out his hand, feeling kind of awkward, but one hundred percent convinced it was the right thing to do.

The boy’s eyes widened as he spoke, probably not having expected that from him. Either way, Geralt didn’t care. He was over it. If he could give Dettlaff, a vampire, a chance, surely, he could give this prickly guy another chance as well?

“Uhh…” Clovis turned and hesitantly took his hand, gripping it weakly. “Are you serious?” Clovis asked him using a pale reiteration of his earlier insult.

“Why wouldn’t I be? Witcher’s need to stick together.” Geralt shifted his grip and clasped Clovis’ hand in both of his own and squeezed them warmly. He stared deeply into Clovis’ green eyes as he tried impress upon him just how serious he truly was.

After several intense and somewhat awkward moments, Clovis hesitantly adjusted his grip on Geralt’s and clasped both his hands in turn. “Okay. Truce?”

“Truce.” Geralt grinned at Clovis warmly, ready to move on. The awkwardness between them was annoying and immature. They were training to become something bigger than themselves, and they needed to act like it, put everything else behind them. They could still be rivals, but it was better to do it on more friendly terms, like how he and Eskel were constantly competing.

“Well, that turned out better than I could have hoped. I was going to have you both work the mess hall together tonight, and hope you sorted out your differences then but—”

Geralt and Clovis turned to the Master Witcher wide eyed. Clovis let go of Geralt and they both returned to their more formal and respectful stances.

_Please not mess hall duty…_

_Please not mess hall duty…_

“Get outa here, don’t say I never went easy on you.”

Oh thank the Gods.

Never having to be told twice, he tore out of there, though not before he glimpsed the fond look Vesemir shot him that had him grinning as he ran outside to the training grounds.

~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~

Sunlight beat down on his back, warming the light cotton shirt he wore. The air was crisp, but down at ground level in his garden, it was moist, nearly humid and smelt of earth, minerals and herbs. He knelt there, soiling his trousers and listening to the birds in the trees as he sifted his fingers through the cool soil. The weeds and creeper vines from various plants had begun encroaching on the roots of his verbana. Amongst all his plants, debris from fallen and blown leaves have begun to pile up as well. He’d been busy as of late, too busy to keep up on it, his attentions distracted as he caught up with work orders for the returning winter witcher’s. He’d been so busy that he’d barely any time for himself. In addition to the weeding and decluttering, he might have missed a watering session here or there too. Luckily, it hadn’t seemed to matter, almost like someone had been keeping an eye out for them.

Hmm.

Dettlaff moved on from the verbana bush he’d been clearing around and on to the row of white myrtle. The bushes were growing so large the stems were beginning to droop and desperately needed to be pruned back. Figuring now was a good a time as any, he allowed himself to fall into a partial transformation, elongated his claws and got to work. Pretty soon he’d have to harvest all the white myrtle—though realistically, he’d have to harvest all his herb plants, the celandine, mint, primgrape and even the cannabis he’d been slowly cultivating in a small greenhouse he’d built nearby. It would be much too cold once winter set in, and he knew from experience they wouldn’t make it.

Alas, he’d have to start anew in late winter and early spring. He looked forward to it though. The easy, mindless work of reaping the land and sewing new seeds, then the wait. By the time the plants began to flower, his bees would reawaken. He missed the pleasant thrum of his hive in the background, and the taste of fresh honey too…

He continued on like that, lost in his thoughts as he pruned away, amassing a large pile of white myrtle on the cloth behind him. It wasn’t until he finished that he felt a niggling at him, and then a light pulse of _exasperation_ was sent over to him through the bond he shared with but one other.

Warmth filled him as he gracefully stood, brushing off his knees and hands as he turned and moved to greet the witcher behind him.

Vesemir stood there in full witcher gear with his two swords on his back, catching a beam of sunlight through the trees across his face and chest. It highlighted his worn features, making the scraggly stubble on his jaw and chin shimmer and the metal of his chest plate glare almost painfully. However, his golden cat eyes were glittering and full of wonder and mirth.

“Morning Vesemir, class over so soon?” Dettlaff smiled warmly as he reverted his partial transformation. Slowly, he closed the distance between them to bump their foreheads together as he sent _fondness_ over to his dear friend. Closing his eyes, he grasped the man’s arms and squeezed them affectionately as he let contentment and happiness wash over him.

“Yes. Though it wouldn’t have been if not for that boy of yours and that brat Clovis.” Vesemir grumbled as he closed his eyes and returned the affectionate arm squeeze.

“’My boy’?” Dettlaff asked as he pulled away to quirk his lip teasingly. “I have no boy, no child surprise of which to call my own. Are you to say I’ve been gifted one, or are you merely placing the blame on me for something you would rather not accept the blame for yourself?”

Vesemir opened his eyes and gave him a pointed look. “Geralt is very protective of your image, and rightfully so. But you need to stop mollycoddling him…” Vesemir squinted up at him as the sunlight bore into his sensitive cat eyes.

Dettlaff felt warm at the thought of the young boy defending his image, and also a pang of empathy for what it probably cost him. “And who is responsible for my being here and ability to ‘mollycoddle’? Knowing full well I have a soft spot for children?”

A sword callused thumb rose up and gently swiped something away from his brow—Dirt? Or a hair? “I didn’t bring you here because you care about children, Dettlaff. I brought you here hoping they’d help you find peace.”

“Yes…and I have Vesemir. More than I could have hoped, and in turn, I’m helping them to find peace as well, even if they don’t know it.” Dettlaff thinned his lips as he released his hold on the old witcher and turned back to his garden, taking solace in its beauty before dark thoughts could take hold.

“You will not find peace in attachment, Dettlaff.” Vesemir’s voice was reproachful and Dettlaff closed his eyes against it, not wishing to admit to himself how right he was. Knowing so, even after nearly three hundred years, attachment was his undoing—every time and without fail. Yet he couldn’t help but become so in some cases.

“He’s only a couple years away from Grasses you know. For a vampire, that’s but a blink of an eye.”

Dettlaff flinched at the reminder and tension coiled in his chest. “_Please Vesemir…_” He begged, voice strained as he allowed the pain he felt to lash through the pack bond at the old witcher.

He walked away and settled before his celandine plants. Eyes slightly glazed, he forced himself to focus on the row of colorful flowers. His eyes burned against the bright yellow, threatening tears. The flowers were friendly and a welcoming distraction; just waiting for him to prune them, display them over his hearth to dry. Dare say the witchers would appreciate a few bundles of them too. They had grown exceptionally well this year.

“I apologize, my friend.” Vesemir drew up alongside him and lay a heavy hand meaningfully on his shoulder.

The touch was a slight comfort against the anguish he felt, yet served to ground him regardless. Dettlaff lent against his best friend, closing his eyes as he drew in a deep breath through his mouth. Earth, herbs, floral aromas, the light tinge of pollen and the spicy musk of Vesemir overwhelmed his senses as he blotted out all other thought.

“Why have you really come to see me?” he murmured as he opened his eyes to look past the old witcher towards the towering keep that loomed in the distance.

His old friend smirked at him and bumped their shoulders together lightly. “Wanted to ask you to dinner. Been a while ya? Thought it would be good for the boys to see you in the mess hall too.”

Dettlaff’s lip quirked up as he bit back the retort that had been so close to flying off his tongue, and instead let his amusement ripple through their bond. “If that is your wish.”

“It is. Can’t preach tolerance if I’m not willing to show it openly myself.”

Oh?...

“How far are you willing to go in order to show your tolerance, Vesemir?” Dettlaff’s small smile grew playful as he tore his gaze from the castle to latch on the gold before him. Ves still stood so very close to him—temptingly so.

“Not that far, Detty.”

Dettlaff feigned a pout. “Some other time then,” he purred as he flickered his gaze along Vesemir’s armored form appreciatively before he turned away to gather his white myrtle.

“You’re incorrigible,” Vesemir chided without heat, though Dettlaff could feel his _exasperation_.

“Mmhm. You like it, wolf,” he chuckled warmly as he tied the bundle of white myrtle together and stood.

“Shut it vampire.”

~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~

“C’mon Clovis! Is that all you got?!” Geralt teased the red head as they clashed, the full amount of their weight was braced entirely against the wooden practice swords they gripped tightly in their hands, and bodies so close their breath mingled. The sound of antagonistic insults and grunts of pain sounded throughout the yard around them as wooden swords knocked together and trainees wrestled in the dirt.

Clovis pressed him, not giving an inch. “Course not, don’t you know me by now?!”

Course he did, the brat always had a trick up his sleeve! Always too ready to resort to trickery to win the match.

Geralt pressed back harder, goading Clovis into using more force before quickly spinning to the side. Clovis had so much weight baring down on him by then the sudden give jarred his balance and he fell forward—nearly to the ground. Geralt shoved him from behind to help him along.

“More than I care to!” he hissed as he used the opening to slash at the boy.

Clovis barely managed to balance himself and deflect the potentially dangerous blow before backing off from him.

They’d immediately reverted to their previous behavior the moment they both realized they were to be paired up together in a sparring match. So while the yard continued to sing with grunts of pain and the slash of fake swords, all Geralt could think about was the infuriating boy in front of him and how to beat him.

“Still gona resort to cheating, Clovis?” Geralt chided with a hint of disdain. Having to resort to trickery or dirty moves was below him in a friendly sparring match. In a life or death situation he’d resort to it, but not now. Not like Clovis who’d tried tripping him up earlier and aimed for the nape of his neck. Okay maybe that hadn’t been so tricky or dirty, but he hadn’t been expecting it and it irritated him to no end!

“A win’s a win. Better than dead!”

“But your life isn’t actually threatened Clovis!”

“He’s right you know,” Eskel scolded from the side as he lent on his wooden sword, having just finished with Gweld. “Our lives aren’t actually threatened, Geralt, but we’re training for when they _could be._ You should take this more seriously.”

Geralt scowled over at his bestie, clearly hurt that he wasn’t being backed up and made to face down the truth.

The taller red head took the opening though and rapped him hard his knuckles. He barely resisted the urge to cry out and gripped his sword harder, whiting out his knuckles.

“Pay attention! Fights not over!”

Growling, he narrowed his eyes and refocused, determined not to let Eskel’s words distract him allowing Clovis to best him once again.

They circled each other and as they did, Geralt relaxed, schooling himself and forcing his body to limber up. He couldn’t be tense, couldn’t be too narrow sighted. Master Varin says to read your opponent, see the whole of them, their movements, their weight and how it shifts and gives them away. Learn their patterns if any yet always hold their gaze. Let them think they have you, then react.

He held Clovis gaze, saw the subtle shift of his grip on his sword, the way he distributed his weight, light footed and ready to pounce or defend. But he was growing impatient, he could see it in Clovis’ eyes. The boy wanted to finish this quickly—net another win, head to the mess hall and cool down.

Geralt wouldn’t let him off so easily.

Clovis moved first, springing at him from the ends of his toes using too much force, gaining too much momentum and leaving himself open and unable to dodge so easily, Geralt spun and whirled around, nimbly dodging his attack and used his own momentum to swing the end of his sword around, grazing the boys back.

The tips weren’t sharp enough to draw blood, but from the groan of pain Clovis let out, he was sure there’d be a nice long line later.

Geralt pressed him, deflecting easily as Clovis swung around and came at him. They clashed again, deflecting and parrying in a flurry of blows that made him grin at the challenge. Might not have been real, may have been wooden swords, but it was fun nonetheless.

“One day, these will be steel—then we’ll really have some fun,” he panted as they came together.

“Things will get really dirty then,” Clovis hissed.

“Is that a promise, red?” Geralt teased as they separated, both out of breath.

“C’mon guys, everyone else is heading in! Meal time!” Eskel whined at the both of them, clearly impatient.

“But we didn’t draw blood yet!” Geralt tossed back over his shoulder.

“I said—”

The wind was knocked out of him as he was barreled to the ground. He grunted in pain as his cheek was slammed into the dirt and he tasted blood as the tender skin inside split against his teeth.

“—pay attention!”

“Fucking…_asshole!_” Geralt roared as he threw away his sword in favor of tussling with the large boy who loomed above him. He shoved Clovis roughly and brought his knee up _hard_, hoping to dislodge him and even going so far to aim for _that spot_ which was tactfully, though not strictly, forbidden. Fuck it all he was pissed though! Tired of Clovis catching him off-guard—and he should have known better!

Clovis threw his sword away too and grabbed his wrists, attempting to force them down as he brought his knee up on Geralt’s thigh, dropping his full weight on it as he attempted to pin him. Growling, he twined their legs and twisted around, rolling them and using the momentary disorientation to straddle Clovis and pull back a fist.

His lips pulled back in a snarl as he drew it back, his fist so white and tight his nails cut into his palm. “So fucking help me I’ll do it Clovis!”

“Do it then Geralt! Don’t be such a pussy!” Clovis snapped back, goading him to the point where Geralt nearly saw red.

He felt hands on his shoulders then, pulling him back—reminding him of the here and now. Geralt shrugged the hands off harshly, spitting blood out on the ground next to Clovis as he stood and locked eyes with the boy.

First blood is first blood, no need to say the words.

Geralt felt three sets of eyes boring into his back as he stormed off.

~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~

The dimly lit mess hall was noisy to his keen vampiric hearing. He was used to the quiet solitude of his work shop and the subtle whispers coerced out of his plants by the chill wind that lilted through his garden. As recused as he’d been, the shuffle of feet and loud exclamations cast off by excited children were thunder to his ears, especially as the large hall began to fill up. Soon after he sat down, children and teen witchers of all ages filtered in from classrooms and the training grounds outside. The master witchers too, some being teachers, others having returned from the path. They all quickly lined up for their meal and filled out the many long tables throughout, including his own. Pretty soon the chorus of voices became a cacophony as they conversed, rehashing the events of the day. The voicing of their wins, losses and what they’ve learned slowly began to overwhelm him.

Even as he tried to filter down and drown out some of the noise, he couldn’t help but overhear children whispering about his presence. Daringly, he sought them out and caught their gaze, making them shy away, embarrassed at being caught. He was used to it now though, and it became no more than a slightly amusing game to him to see who he could catch.

As he sat against the wall, side by side with Vesemir, close enough that their elbows and legs brushed as he reflected on the disturbance and distraction his presence provided. Anytime he caught a child staring while he picked at the food on his plate, he gauged their expression and wondered what was going through their minds. Did they see him as a monster, a fiend to be put down? Or rather an enigma or curiosity? The only one who’d made his thoughts clear thus far had been Geralt, and as rare result, he’d ended up becoming rather fond of the child, just as Vesemir feared.

Mostly, he wanted to prevent the possibility of forming those attachments, so it was rare indeed that he made an appearance, and usually only at Vesemir’s behest. As his old friend so brutally reminded him earlier that day, it wouldn’t do to become attached, and that’s exactly what he feared would happen should be socialize long enough to start putting names to the faces of so many younglings. He couldn’t do that—couldn’t bear the thought of learning who they were, or what they were a bout…He wasn’t like the witchers who were trained to school themselves and disassociate from unpleasantries one wished to not think about. Fact is, Dettlaff _cared_ too much, which was his whole reason for being there, even despite the occasional verbal abuse and snide comments.

He’d received more than his fair share of malicious thoughts made verbal in the past—mostly from the older wintering witchers—especially when he’d first arrived. Vesemir did his best to quell those concerns though and squash their remarks. Eventually, and over a long period of time, the older wolves began to accept him, embrace him even. They especially valued his help refueling their ingredient stash and helping with the more precarious offsite trials. Sometimes they even challenged him to a sparring match, feeling bored or wanting a true test of their skills.

Those were his most memorable moments, being able to relinquish his control and let himself go a bit—blow off some steam as the witchers would put it—and sometimes they’d do other things. It was then he felt the most accepted by them, not just tolerated. _Accepted._ Welcomed into their world and the sacred culture they all held so dear.

Now, most of the shameless remarks came from the younglings, or the newly anointed graduates who were just returning from their first long trek out on the path and were too cocky for their own good.

“Hey Dettlaff?”

He tore his gaze from the younglings still filtering into the room and locked eyes with a witcher so far on in years he might have surpassed Vesemir. His silvery hair was tied back in an old braid that hung far down his back, twining with his two swords and begging to be washed and re-plaited. It was Elgar, temporarily returned from his extended stint in Skellige. The old witcher had a square jaw and wide nose, broken several times over it seemed, and was neatly shaven. Though his pale skin was rough with a glistening of stubble and bushy white brows. Interestingly enough, he was one of the few witchers without any noticeable scars on his face or extremities, with one exception of course. He was missing the left two fingers on his left hand. Not critical, since he’s a right-handed blacksmith and sword wielder, but a loss none the less.

“What can I do for you, Master Elgar?”

“Just wanted to thank you for the Bullvore bile and Archgriffen acid oils you concocted. Gerd loves experimenting with new tempering material so he’ll be super happy to have them! You have my thanks Master Vampire. If there’s anything you ever need you have but to ask.”

Warmth coiled within him as he dipped his head respectfully towards the old witcher and offered him a small, tight lipped smile. “It’s my pleasure to assist in any way that I can.”

Another instructor down the table raised his hand in some sort of salute, catching Dettlaff’s attention.

“Ay. Thank you, Master Vampire, for the oils, though I may use them for other than their intended purposes.” The witcher, Osbert, who was still rather young in face and had short sandy colored hair let out a meaningful chuckle as he leered at Dettlaff.

The witchers at the table snickered and Dettlaff could scent them all keying up to some extent or another at Osbert’s insinuation.

Dettlaff flashed the witcher playful grin, just barely showing his fangs as he picked up his mug of mulled wine. “Remind me to never gift you oils again,” he quipped back teasingly, just barely resisting the urge to roll his eyes. Witchers!

Laughing good naturedly alongside him, Vesemir begged his attention then as he lent over. Obliging his old friend, he tilted his head further over to listen.

“I’ll take’m Dettlaff,” the old wolf muttered, his voice barely tangible above the noise of the mess hall.

He smirked and narrowed his eyes at the implication. “Going through them quickly are we?” He whispered back just as quietly as he let his end of their bond open up a sliver.

Vesemir sat back and huffed as he returned his attention to his meal. “No.” _Embarrassment._ Ha. He kind of wondered which oil it was Ves ran out of this time—the mint or the cinnamon?

Dettlaff rumbled softly next to him and shoulder bumped the old man as he sent back _fondness._..He missed this, the good natured banter, the minor innuendo and light touches. Though he could still do without all the noise. Despite the clamor however, and the distracting way he caught most everyone’s attention at least once or twice, he did manage to make note of the one person who had yet to make it to the mess hall.

Geralt. However his friend Eskel had settled down, as well as the trouble maker Clovis. They had settled themselves in between several of their cohort at a long table across the room and were just starting to tuck into their meal.

Dettlaff watched them subtly as he popped a couple grapes into his mouth and slowly savored their flavor. The boys looked worn and tired, Clovis more so than Eskel—and dirty from head to toe. Dust covered their clothing and hair, which was also tangled and disheveled. Even Eskel, who had taken to tying his in a ponytail. Strands stuck out wildly framing his face as he ate, occasionally lifting his head to glance at the entrance—searching for his friend Geralt.

The worry his best friend Eskel clearly felt was endearing. He hoped that they would be able to officially meet soon…but he would wait. Eskel would come on Eskel’s terms, or not at all.

Vesemir must have caught his subtle staring and elbowed him gently. “Heard they got into it in the yard. I knew it wouldn’t last,” the old wolf chuckled lightly, though Dettlaff could tell he felt disheartened by it possibly falling through. _It_ being the truce young Geralt proposed to his rival. He’d apologized, and even went so far as to bring the red head into their private little circle.

“Were they sparring?” Dettlaff asked as he popped a piece of warm bread into his mouth.

“You know they were.”

Well, that settled it. “It was training then. Things get heated. You know how it goes, Vesemir. Don’t overthink it.”

“Hmmm…” Vesemir dunked his bread into the beef stew he’d taken for his meal and tore a chunk out of it. While the old wolf chewed, Geralt finally walked into the mess hall.

Dettlaff continued to watch on the sly, not wanting to bring extra attention to the young child who looked around in search for his friends after claiming a bowl of beef stew for himself. Geralt had cleaned up, his chin length auburn hair slicked back with moisture and his clothing clinging to his body. Even from where Dettlaff sat, amidst the scent of sweat, spice and odorous bodies, the smell of soap and shampoo stuck out to him. He watched as the young pup’s eyes skimmed the crowded hall and paused on the table his cohort sat at. Eskel had reserved him a spot and the two locked eyes. Eskel looking hopeful while Geralt just frowned.

Clearly more had gone on in the yard than just a sparring match between Geralt and Clovis. Almost reluctantly, Geralt wound his way through the maze of tables and had almost made it over to Eskel when their eyes met.

Dettlaff ever so slightly inclined his head to the wolf pup in greeting, then returned to his meal of cheese, fruit and steadily cooling bread. After but a few seconds, Vesemir was kneeing him under the table again.

He jerked his head up in question, only to be answered immediately as his eyes alighted on young Geralt who was tentatively walking towards him.

“Hey, may I join you?” Geralt asked them hopefully as he paused in front of their table.

Dettlaff noted how tense the boy was, especially as dozens of eyes flickered towards him in between bites of food.

“Well…don’t you want to sit with your friends, Geralt?” Vesemir asked, indicating the empty spot at the table his cohort sat at.

Dettlaff pointedly pressed his leg harder into Vesemir’s.

“He’s my friend too,” Geralt said a little bit loudly as he gestured towards him, loud enough to be heard over the noise of the hall to those in the general vicinity.

Warmth constricted within him as he carefully grabbed his of mulled wine and sipped it. He was so incredibly touched to have the child seek him out that he had to hide a soft smile behind his cup.

Vesemir eyed the hopeful young man and raked his gaze down the table. Several sets of golden eyes stared at Geralt, most of which knew Geralt rather well.

Master Sorel’s eyes glittered with amusement as he inclined his towards Geralt. “In my opinion, anyone humble enough to concede honest defeat, even when consumed by rage, is welcome.”

Sword master Varin growled over at Sorin. “You’re soft old man, this is a winners table. Humble or not, he still lost.”

Geralt frowned ever so slightly, though he stood unwavering.

“Please Master Vesemir?” he asked again, pointedly ignoring Varin who just scowled. The sword master would probably have it in for him now, at least during their next session—what did he think he was doing?

“Let’m sit with the big boys.” Elgar motioned towards the empty spot next to Vesemir nonchalantly.

Geralt still didn’t move, because the person he’d been addressing still hadn’t answered him.

“Are you, Clovis and Eskel okay?” Ves asked pointedly with the arch of a brow.

Geralt’s gaze switched back over to where his friends sat, who were all staring over at him with expressions varying from disbelief to hurt. “Yeah…” Geralt smiled over at them weakly, then returned his focus to Vesemir. “We’ll be fine. I just wanted to sit with Dettlaff.”

“Ooooh you got yourself an _admirer_, Detty?” Osbert asked teasingly from down on the opposite end.

Dettlaff’s cool blue eyes locked onto Osbert’s and narrowed scathingly, not really appreciating _that_ particular implication. “We’re friends. Obviously.”

“Just fr—“

“Osbert. Knock it off.” Vesemir snarled over at the younger wolf instructor.

Geralt’s eyes widened as Osbert threw up his hands in an attempt to placate the old wolf.

“Okay geeze, my bad. Just jokin’.”

“There are lines, Osbert. Treading on them is not tolerated. You’re dismissed.” Ves growled out before switching his focus back onto Geralt. He didn’t even wait to see if Osbert would obey and immediately addressed the young pup.

Dettlaff watched Osbert leave with barely concealed venom and totally missed what Vesemir had said to Geralt in the process.

“Scoot,” Geralt ordered him, prodding him in the side with a finger as he waited none-too-patiently for him to move.

He jerked his attention back to the boy, then glanced at Vesemir who had already moved down a space—then to the other witchers who watched him with mirth in their eyes.

“You heard the boy. ‘Scoot’, Vampire.” Elgar mocked with a wolfish grin.

Dettlaff _did_ roll his eyes this time and happily obliged by taking the warm spot Vesemir had vacated.

Geralt wasted no time scooting onto the bench, sitting so close that their legs brushed before he dove into his meal. He watched the boy for a bit, in between sips of wine and the occasional scan of the room. He was trying to be subtle in his excitement, and his joy. Of all the children—however many hundreds he’d vaguely interacted with over the years—Geralt was the first to _ever_ express interest in getting to know him, and wanting to be friends. Outside of Vesemir and several adult witchers of course—the number of friends in his circle was miniscule. So the fact that Geralt decided to build something along the lines of friendship with him was incredibly precious.

“What?”

Dettlaff blinked at Geralt who was gazing up at him. He’d been caught staring…When had he started staring?

“What happened to your face?” Dettlaff deflected, unperturbed as he licked at his thumb and swiped it gently across the boy’s cheek. It was scraped and raw, the wound being about the size of his own thumb. The thing was red and inflamed and was begging him to heal it.

Geralt flinched away and scowled up at him. “Clovis pushed me down, no big deal.”

“Hmmph.” He licked his thumb again, needing to satisfy his urge to heal the pups wound but Geralt smacked his hand away before he could even get close.

“Stop it.” Geralt’s face was red, and some of the witchers and children were staring at him—them—he was making the boy embarrassed. Oops.

“Your boys got balls, Dettlaff,” Elgar teased.

Dettlaff hid his pleasure at Geralt being referred to as ‘his’ for the second time that day behind a shrug and went back to his fruit and cheese. “Wanted to fix it. Sorry.” Out of his peripheral vision he saw Geralt mouth the words ‘fix it,’ obviously confused—but not willing to actually ask what he meant in favor of stuffing his face.

Dettlaff shrugged inwardly and decided he would give the young pup a few minutes to fill his belly before pointing out the obvious. Until then, he contented himself to finishing off his mulled wine and the remaining bites of food on his plate.

“Dettlaff.”

“Yes?” It was Varin. Bald with bushy black and silver streaked brows; his face menacing and angled, like a sharks despite the fact he was only a half elf. The man’s lips were pressed into a thin line as deep-set onyx eyes seared through him. Challenging.

He knew what was coming.

“Spar with me after supper?” Varin’s voice was gravelly and clipped. He could practically _feel_ the tension behind it begging to be released. The man needed an outlet—a good fight, something which Dettlaff was definitely interested in, among other things. Except…

Out of his peripheral vision, he could see Geralt pause—listening as Dettlaff considered. Dettlaff then glanced at Vesemir who sent him a nudge under the table and tentative pulse of _solitude_ through their bond. Hmm…well…in that case…

“Another time…perhaps?” Dettlaff reached over for the pitcher of mulled wine and refilled his cup as he tactfully rolled out a plausible excuse. “I do enjoy our duels, Varin. But alas, I have some projects I need to complete still before our wintering brother’s return.”

The stern sword instructor inclined his head in acceptance, though the incredible tension was still there. Hopefully the witcher could find a suitable, _constructive_ outlet, before he ended up taking his aggressions out on his trainees.

“You spar, Detty?”

Dettlaff’s attention was drawn back to the boy at his side, who finally seemed sated enough to draw himself away from his meal—or maybe the curiosity was finally getting to him.

“Sometimes, yes.”

“With swords?”

He laughed softly and shook his head. “No, pup. Not swords.”

“You have claws, I’ve seen pictures in the books. Not much info on vampires. Why is that?” Geralt seemed a bit confused, and endearingly put out by the lack of readily available information on his race.

“Yes well, there’s a reason behind that pup. Once Vesemir decides it’s time to cover vampire lore with you, he will tell you.” Dettlaff felt the gratitude roll out from Vesemir.

“Can I see your claws then?” Geralt looked excited, but nervous at having asked such a daring question.

Dettlaff shrugged and looked over to Vesemir. “Up to you, Master Wolf.”

Geralt peered around Dettlaff as he gripped the table with white knuckles. “Please?”

Vesemir sighed and side-eyed the rest of the instructors. “_Just _the claws. We don’t need to be frightening the trainees.”

From down on the table he heard a muttered whisper that almost had him laughing.

“_Don’t get excited Varin. They’re **just** claws.”_

Ha.

Geralt practically vibrated beside him as Dettlaff distractedly returned his attention to him.

“Okay Geralt, are you ready?” He was fighting back a fanged grin. This was a first for him—getting to show off in the mess hall. When he sparred, it was a given—though more often than not all of the younglings had been sent off to bed. Now, he had at least half the halls undivided attention.

“Sure.”

With a grace and ease as instinctual as breathing, he let his power shift and ripple down his arm, allowing his claws to extend outwards slowly. He braced the back of his hand against the table and aimed his hand towards the ceiling as they grew, elongating into slightly curved razor sharp claws about a foot long. He felt nothing as he did so, just the vague flow of power shifting through him, like slipping on a second skin.

“Those are long! Wow!” Geralt reached out to touch them and Dettlaff quickly shifted his hand away with wide eyes.

“Don’t! I’d rather you not get cut on accident. Be _careful_. Else I won’t do anything like this again,” Dettlaff chided firmly as his eyes quickly scanned the hall before returning to Geralt—as he wanted to make sure he didn’t just _reach out_ and grab at his claws!

“You can block swords with these?” His little friend was wide eyed with wonder now, and totally oblivious to the amused looks from the witchers and freaked out stares from the kids around them.

“Yes. Block swords, cut through bone, prune my garden or dig holes. The usual.”

“Neat. Can you do anything else?” Geralt looked up at him hopefully.

“Again, Vesemir will educate you about our lore when you’re ready. I _will_ let on to a little known secret, though most of the witchers here already know about it. My saliva _heals._ Check your cheek Geralt.” It wasn’t all the way healed, but it had visibly faded, along with the inflammation and possible tenderness.

Geralt fingered the scrape on his cheek and his mouth dropped open. “That’s not fair! I want healing powers!”

Vesemir broke out into a chuckle then. “_In time,_ pup. Be patient. You’ll get there.”

Dettlaff grinned as he tore his gaze from Geralt to scan the hall again which consisted of most of its inhabitants shuffling and stretching in an attempt to get a good look at his claws and now, Geralt’s healing cheek. Kind of sad that was the most interest they’ve _ever_ shown him aside from _staring_.

But it was a start, at least towards Vesemir’s goal of fostering tolerance via education and all that…

“Maybe you should hold an instructional class,” Ves joked from beside him.

“Ha. I was just thinking something along those lines. Maybe I’ll assist you next time you cover me and my kin.” He offered as he let his power release and flow back into his core. Dettlaff looked over at Vesemir who was staring at him rather fondly.

“Nobody ran out screaming. Ves,” he mused out loud as he smiled happily with his eyes.

“Yep. Well…”

“Varin is gone,” Elgar piped in with a snicker.

Vesemir and Dettlaff bowed their heads as their tried to stifle their own laugher.

That poor, poor, neglected witcher.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you liked :) please let me know what you think!
> 
> Also...
> 
> I am so going to have to write a backstory for Dettlaff and Vesemir now. They're adorable.


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